


plato's cave, and all that

by thefudge



Series: i hate so much about the things that you choose to be [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: Covid-19 season, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Late Night Conversations, Love in the Time of Corona, Phone Calls & Telephones, can't quit you type of vibe, ost: the magnetic fields - i don't want to get over you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: “You’re a meanie.”“Don’t use terms of endearment. Just call me mean.”It’s the sort of trenchant pronouncement she’ll make without realizing how much he likes it. He likes her pronouncements a lot.
Relationships: Camila Mendes/Cole Sprouse
Series: i hate so much about the things that you choose to be [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646125
Comments: 33
Kudos: 78





	plato's cave, and all that

**Author's Note:**

> i'd originally planned a mini-pandemic fic but then...some over the top cole drama happened and while i do reference it here, i make it vague and don't go into the details because this is RPF and i'm dealing with a heavily fictionalized version of these people, so i don't want to cross over into smth else (but the gist of it is, cole/lili are broken up and cole might've cheated, but probably not, but probably yeah. the more problematic part is that his home address got leaked, which is pretty awful. now, i don't know if these crazy kids will get back together or if those rumors are founded, i don't know and don't want to know, i'm just using situations for fic fodder. that being said, i expect this fic to become super dated in 48 hours when new drama crops up. and i'm already sorry for future readers of this fic).  
> anywaaaay, is this tacky and in bad taste, but also very fraught and Emotions(TM)? welcome to my RPF.  
> please stay safe yall <3
> 
> (oh right, you don't have to read parts 1 and 2, but you coooould ;) )

“How come you rejected my facetime call?”

Cami doesn’t stop typing, pausing here and there to check a word online. 

“I’m not dressed for facetime.”

“What do you mean, not dressed? You’ve decided to become a nudist during a health crisis?” And he sounds both disgruntled and slightly curious.

“Fine, I’m not _emotionally_ dressed for facetime. I’m actually enjoying not being seen or seeing anyone. Hermit style.”

He makes a sound like a yawning cat, a quiet clasping of jaw. “Thanks for texting, by the way.”

Cami clicks off Google Translate, rattled. “I’m sorry about your drama, it sucks. It’s genuinely disturbing. Your fan base crossed a limit, so I texted you to check in. I think that’s standard friendship stuff.”

“No, standard friendship stuff is me actually hearing your voice and seeing your face. Oh, and since when do we have a _standard friendship_?”

“That’s exactly why I texted,” she mumbles, wishing she could just hang up, but knowing she won’t because while she can deny him some things, she can’t go cold turkey. Not only for professional but also for embarrassing, stupid _personal_ reasons.

“This past week has been pretty shit,” he says, going off-track.

“For you and a million more people with actual struggles. Also, it's Wednesday." 

“Like you don’t have someone buying your groceries right now. Pot, kettle, black.”

“I didn’t say I was struggling more, but I’m not complaining.”

“I’m not complaining either, I’m just stating facts. Why the hell are you typing so much? I can hear you over the phone.”

“I’m translating a text for a family friend into Portuguese.”

“You speak Portuguese?”

“Ha ha.”

“I mean, you don’t speak it _to_ me.”

“Small mercies.”

“True. I’m sure I’d only fall more deeply in love.”

Cami rolls her eyes.

“I heard you rolling your eyes.”

“See, you don’t even need facetime,” she quips.

“You’re a meanie.”

“Don’t use terms of endearment. Just call me mean.”

It’s the sort of trenchant pronouncement she’ll make without realizing how much he likes it. He likes her pronouncements a lot.

There’s a prolonged pause in which she tries to remember the word for “doorknob” in Portuguese. She doesn’t want to open Google Translate again because it just feels like a cop out.

“Knob, knob, knob…” she mutters.

“Hey, don’t get me excited.”

Cami looks down at the phone. “So, did you really cheat?”

He starts laughing right away. “No. I don’t do that kind of stuff. Not with barely out of their teens models anyway.”

“Right.”

“It’s a real career hazard. Plus, I’ve seen _Hard Candy_.”

Cami snorts. “Now there’s an image.”

“Enjoy watching me get brutalized?”

“Maybe.”

“Were you jealous when you found out I might be cheating?” he asks, because he likes asking full sentences like that with no leeway for misunderstanding.

“No. I just feel bad for the women in your life.”

His voice sounds a little more playful and cold as he says, “You say that as a woman in my life? Nay, the _only_ woman in my life?”

“I say it as someone who is critical of your behavior.”

“Well, you’re not riding a particularly high horse in this tournament.”

Cami stiffens. “I haven’t cheated or treated people the way you do.”

“Sure you have. We’ve done it together. What do they call them, emotional affairs? Although I think in our case the whole thing is pretty liminal. You know, we don’t adhere to the mind/body binary; we’re sort of in between. A mind and body affair, if you will.”

“Can you not be a scumbag about everything?” she says, lightly. She doesn’t want to sound upset. He’ll have to work harder to make her feel guilty.

“Do you really think I’m _that_ bad?” he asks, almost earnest, but there’s a whole other continent in that almost.

“You already know what I think. I think you play with people, then feel bad about it, then feel bad about yourself, then call me.”

He ponders her words enough for her to finally remember the Portuguese word for “doorknob”.

“Maybe I just like talking to you and seeing your face. Maybe I want you to be jealous a little bit. I don’t know, maybe I do feel bad about everything you said. You're a part of it. I can't take you out of it. Does that make me a scumbag?" 

Cami shakes her head.

“I hear you shaking your head.”

She smiles.

"Now if I hacked your phone's camera, that would _definitely_ make me a scumbag."

"Shut up."

Pause. 

“I treated her right, you know. I mean I’m almost sure I did. That’s not why we broke up.”

Cami heaves a sigh. “I think the problem with you is you talk like you’ve already lived a full life – like you’re _so_ jaded. I think you need to grow a few decades older and, I don’t know, lose a kidney or something.”

“ _What_?”

“Not like _that_. I just mean –you have to grow old and experience actual loss and _then_ talk like that. Just - just be a flaky guy in his twenties and stop acting like you’re more.”

There’s a longer pause after this. She can hear music in the background. “You’re right,” he says, soberly. “Can I see your face?”

“You’re just humoring me.”

“No, I actually think you kinda nailed it. You always nail me. Came out wrong, but you get my point. Can I see you?”

“I’m busy.”

“I really want to see you.”

She hates the way his voice gets, soft and needling and with too much throat in it, if that makes sense.

“I’m…let’s let some time pass.”

“Until I lose that kidney?”

“You just got out of a relationship,” she says.

“And? Even if I was still in it, I’d still want to see your face.”

Cami rubs a spot near her temples. _And you don't see the problem with that?_

Sure, she's tired of these pointless labyrinths they always get stuck in. But a part of her likes the claustrophobia. She can almost believe she's going through something meaningful.

“You can look at a photo of me.”

“I can look at you shadow-dancing,” he says, and she hears the click and there's music again. She knows what it is; it's the video of her dancing to Gaga's _Stupid Love._

 _Look at me now/ Cause all I ever wanted was love_ , the song blares, as her dark outline vibrates in sunset light.

“It's pretty good. But it’s only a hint of you," he complains. "Mere shadow on a wall. Plato’s cave, and all that.”

“What did I say about sounding like you’re old and wise?”

“Sorry. It’s just hard to see you but _not_ see you.”

“See? The mind/body binary at work,” she quips. “Anyway, _tenho que ir._ ”

“What was that?”

“I have to go…in Portuguese.”

“Oh. Would be nice if you didn’t. Would be nice if you just let me saw you.”

“It would be. But I’m mean, remember?”

He sounds, like he always does towards the end, like _she’s_ the one who’s (w)rung _him_.

“Well, don’t go to bed too late on my account. Hope to hear from you soon.”

“I’ll text,” she says, aiming for an amiable sting.

“You better _not_.”

“Fine, I won’t say anything.”

“That’s not what I –”

“I’ll send you a messenger pigeon.”

“Want me to get avian flu too?”

She frowns. “I can see why no one is quarantining with you.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.”

“Trying to make me jealous again?”

“Is it working?”

“Night.”

“…okay, good night. Are you sure you don’t –”

But he cuts himself off. He hangs up before he gets a chance to finish. Or maybe he wants to make _her_ call him.

Or maybe. Who knows.

She lies down against the pillow and lifts her phone up. She switches to camera and watches her body in that mirror. 

The hermit's greatest sin is hoarding. Hoarding herself. Not giving an inch. 

She takes a photo, but she doesn’t send it to anyone.

He lies down, watching the video of her shadow dancing for the hundredth time. He never gets tired of it.

He cheats on her with her shadow. 


End file.
